Obsession
by angiebaby
Summary: Nikita can deal with her high pressure job for Section 1, especially in times when she has to go undercover. But, she didnt bargain that she would be called beyond duty... when she became a man's obsession.
1. Default Chapter

1 Chapter 1  
  
  
  
He leaned back and made himself comfortable. Glancing around he gave an impatient check of the time on his Swiss-made Daniel Roth wristwatch. It was late. The wintry wind that funneled down the dark lane made him draw his cashmere overcoat tighter until it fitted snugly around his well-formed torso. Vehicles and by-passers all deaf to him as he stared fixedly at the set of grey-white steps.  
  
A few minutes later, some movement above caused him to avert his eyes from the steps to the pair of double doors, a faint hope still flickered in his heart. He took a deep, sucking breath with his hands clenched violently in a tight fist. The oxygen went straight to his brain, triggering a burst of adrenaline that instantly invoked a full-blown anger. He watched with helpless fury as the tall, handsome man helped his beautiful Nikita into her pullover and escorted her into a white, Citroen taxi, which had drawn up on the sidewalks of the Italian café.  
  
Italian indeed. He knew that his Nikita never liked the taste of Italian food. He watched her long enough to know that his bride-to-be fancied good old English steaks to soggy, wet pastas topped with cold meatballs. 'Huh,' he scoffed. Nikita would never prefer that leggy man to him. What he saw next really brought sparks to rage in his eyes. How dare this pack of bones give a feather-light peck on the cheeks of his Nikita.  
  
He squinted against the wind. Birkoff. That was what he had heard his beloved Nikita call the man. His mask of composure clipped as he flashed Birkoff a brief growl. His thin, blue eyes darkening into a stormy navy with the tumultuous emotions that he had learned in early childhood to keep sternly repressed. He had not been allowed the luxury of tantrum like other normal children and though sometimes he felt like exploding, those emotions were not even a friction close to the wild frustration that he felt now.  
  
He crept along silently after Birkoff, who was now humming a non-melody to a non-song. So Birkoff is in a real, fine mood, huh? So was he. So was he. Stealing a glimpse of Birkoff, he felt a satisfied smile tug the corners of his mouth. Not a soul in sight. He broke into a run and shivered with excitement as he grabbed a nearby brick.  
  
Birkoff heard someone whisper his name. He abruptly came to a halt and slowly turned around. Now that the sun has set, darkness quickly shrouded the city sidewalks in thick, heavy shadows as the streetlight a few meters away had been vandalized. He tried to calm his mounting fears by reminding himself that this part of the city was safe and that his imagination was overactive.  
  
A sudden breeze rustled through the palm trees or was the sound a man's heavy breathing? Fear skated down his spine and his heart slammed against his ribs. Birkoff edged backward, slowly inching away from the unseen menace. He was sure someone or something was there, lurking just out of sight. Before he could make a dash for safety, he felt an unmerciful knock on the head and the world went blessedly dark. 


	2. Chapter 2

1 Chapter 2  
  
  
  
A loud peremptory knocking on the door to her apartment awakened Nikita. Jerking upright, she stared around in confusion, then heard the persistent knuckles knocking on the door again. Groaning inwardly, she gently rubbed her throbbing temples and sighed deeply. Grabbing her peach- colored slip that hung from a porcelain hook, she walked with lazy footsteps to the door.  
  
Michael. He stepped inside. "Birkoff's dead."  
  
Nikita slowly closed the door, all traces of fatigue gone from her lovely blue-green eyes. Her face drained of color. Michael noticed the intensity of the reaction, but chose not to comment on it. Her hands fluttered beside her and came to rest against the wall. As soon as she connected with something solid, she slumped sideways, and he stifled the impulse to pull her against his shoulder and hold her steady while she absorbed the shock.  
  
She pushed herself erect, tight-lipped, struggling with the turmoil of sharp, twisting emotions. She cleared her throat to compose herself and raked a hand through her hair. But, this was only her second undercover assignment since Section 1 recruited her. She had no intention of screwing up.  
  
Operation and Madeline had filled her in the necessary details for this assignment. There has been a suspected burglary into the Senator Griffin's house in the next period of three months, with an estimated cumulative loss in the ballpark of 6.5 million dollars, which could lead to a breach in national security.  
  
The operation's well organized and efficient. They suspected there were at least two, probably three or more people involved. They didn't want to alert anyone on the inside to the investigation, but they needed to find out who was targeting the marks, and how. That's where Nikita comes in. She was to bus tables in Storm, a club that has been the main source, owned by someone by the name of Ryan Blackwood.  
  
Realizing that her mind has wandered away again, Nikita tried to concentrate on what Michael was saying.  
  
"I've put you on six to two. You get a fifteen minutes break every two hours. No drinking during shifts. Any of the customers get overly friendly or out of line, you report to Blackwood," Michael instructed.  
  
"I can handle myself."  
  
Michael walked menacingly towards her, his cool, patient looked irked. "Some guys cross lines when they drink. The crowd starts getting thick after eight. Entertainment starts at nine. You'll be busy."  
  
He walked to the door, stopped; shot a glance over his shoulder.  
  
"Oh, Nikita? Waitresses at Storm's wear black. Black shirt or sweater, black skirt. Short black skirt," he added, and then let himself out.  
  
Nikita pursed her lips, and for the first time since he'd come into the room relaxed enough to slip her hands casually into her pockets. The apartment was simple and uncluttered, mostly because she wasn't there long enough for it to be otherwise. She glanced at her watch. 4:11. She yanked open her closet door and pushed through a selection of clothes-designer dresses, tailored jackets and basketball jerseys- in search of a suitable black skirt.  
  
If she could manage a quick change, she might actually have time to slap together a sandwich or stuff a handful of cookies into her mouth before she raced out. She pulled out a skirt, winced at the length when she held it up, then tossed that on the bed to dig through her dressed for a pair of black hose.  
  
If she was going to wear a skirt that barely covered her butt, she would damn well cover the rest with solid, opaque black. Tonight could be the night, she thought as she stripped off her trousers. She had to stay calm about it, cool, controlled. She could use Blackwood. At 4.20, she was dressed in black- turtleneck, skirt, and hose. She shoved through the shoes on the floor of her closet and found a suitable pair of low heels.  
  
With a nod to vanity, she dragged the clip out of her hair, brushed it, and clipped it back again. Then she closed her eyes and tried to think like a waitress in an upscale club. Lipstick, perfume, earrings. An attractive waitress made more tips, and tips had to be a goal. She took the time for them, then studied the results in the mirror.  
  
Sexy, she supposed, certainly feminine and in a satisfactory way, practical. And there was no place to hide her weapon. Damn it. She hissed out a breath, and settled on stuffing her nine-millimeter in an oversized shoulder bag. She tossed on a black leather jacket as a concession to the brisk spring evening, then bolted for the door. 


	3. Chapter 3

Bridgewater was, exactly like how Nikita remembered it to be. She didn't remember much but she remembered making a promise to get out of this hole. Bridgewater was a unique New York neighborhood. Its crammed redbrick tenements were home to an uneasy alliance of working-class Irish, Italians, Puerto Ricans and Eastern Europeans. The men worked the docks or drove trucks, they cut and hauled loins of beef or wore construction hard hats, the fruits of their daily physical labor headlined by a steady union paycheck. Many of the men left for work in the wee hours of morning, leaving behind crowded apartments filled with sleeping wives and children huddled in rooms that were too hot in summer and too cold in winter. Nikita knew that for a fact, because she too was one of them.

Nikita walked a little faster and tried instead to concentrate on the information that was given by Madeline. Bridgewater was a neighborhood grounded in the traditions of its violent and isolationist past. Gangs controlled the neighborhood, and none were more prominent or powerful than the five-hundred-strong Gorpes, who were led by Bridgewater's deadliest man, Owney "Killer" Mardie. Mardie was a bootlegger with a banker's eye for investments. He held partnerships in a number of profitable dance halls, including Storm, as well as a piece of the eventual heavyweight champion of the world, Bruno Mardinsky. Some even say he owned a church. Strangers were never encouraged to walk its streets, while residents roamed outside its boarders only to attend weddings, funerals or baptisms. Street fights were the most acceptable way to solve a dispute, and they were never allowed to end until there was a clear victor. The men of the neighborhood were openly encouraged to fight, regardless of their age or size. Many nights, they would be caught in the middle of a street brawl, barely fending off a barrage of body blows, their face and hands soaked with their own spit and blood. There, in the middle of the gathered crowd, would be the trophy. A bartered wife or daughter. Nikita knew. On one such night, she was that trophy. 

Nikita shook away the anger and wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. That was when she realised that she had arrived at Storm. At the corner of her eyes, Nikita noticed that a Puerto Rican gang led by a small, heavy-muscled teenager arrived at the lot, the six members each checking out the surroundings, exchanging low fives and drinking cold beers half-hidden inside brown paper bags. An eight-member Irish gang waited by two open doors of a Chevy convertible, their arms crossed, the pockets of their jeans stuffed with makeshift weapons. Three members of the Hawks, a gun-dealing gang from the East Side, stood next to an open fire hydrant, silent and still. The Italian gang waited by a candy store, the five of them hand-checking the zip guns nestled under their belts, next to their spines. That was when Nikita saw Ryan Blackwood. 

He waved to the Italians and then whirled in Nikita's direction. "Are you scared?" he shouted at her. Nikita slowly shook her head. Ryan took a long gulp from a five-gallon jug of homemade Italian wine and put the jug back near his right leg and reached one hand into the front left pocket of his blue jeans. Nikita tensed and her fingers automatically inched towards her nine-millimeter, but was relieved when Ryan pulled out a crushed pack of Pall Malls, squeezed a cigarette out and bummed a light from an over-weight teenager to his left. "Then scram," he said after he took a long drag and, clenching the cigarette with his teeth, let the smoke flow through his nose and mouth.

Nikita walked into Storm, fists clenched, the back of her turtleneck soaked with sweat. "You look a little lost." Nikita shifted her gaze and studied the woman who approached her with an easy smile. The woman was dressed in oversized overalls that made her look like a little girl playing grownup. Her reddish blond hair fell below her shoulders in a tangle of curls. She had delicate features, and she wore only a touch of makeup. Her eyes were blue, but as she squinted, they seem to change shades like the color of a lake on a day when the sun is contesting with the clouds. In those eyes Nikita saw fear, sadness, supplication, and hope. Nikita expected a bimbo, but she'd found a little girl.

"I hope not." Deciding a little agitation fit the role, Nikita shifted her shoulder bag and offered a nervous smile. "I'm CJ, I'm the new..." 

"Yes, I know who you are. Ryan mentioned you'll be here. I'm Abbie." She offered a hand, and gave hers a quick squeeze. "The man told me to keep an eye out for you. I'll take you up."

"Thanks. Nice place," Nikita commented as she continued to eye Ryan.

"Yes, only when we do not question."

At that strange remark, Nikita turned to look at Abbie. This woman had a hard edge to her. Withered, but Nikita decided, was not beaten by the strain of her struggles. Nikita frowned but decided that it was best for her to keep her silence this time. 

Abbie turned a corridor, then punched a code into a control panel. When a panel in the wall slid open, Nikita stepped in with her and watched her reenter the code. Noticing her stares, Abbie explained, "Any one of us who've got to do business on the second level gets a code. You don't have to worry about it."

The door opened again, directly into Ryan's office. It was a large space, split into business and pleasure with an area to one side devoted to a long leather sofa in his signature color, two-sink-into-me armchairs and a wide-screen TV. Nikita shifted her attention to the business area. It appeared to be as ruthlessly efficient as the rest of the room was indulgent. The workstation held a computer and phone. Across from it stood a monitor that showed the club area. The single window was shielded with blinds, and the blinds were tightly shut. 

_So much for a poor neighborhood_, Nikita thinks to herself.

When the doors of the elevator shut, Nikita whirled around to discover that she was alone. Slowly she took stock and allowed her gaze to slide over and check for other surveillance cameras. Lightly running her fingers down the armchairs, Nikita visibly jumped when she heard a rustle of clothes behind her. 

"Looking for something?" Ryan asked with narrowed eyes.

"Sorry I'm late. I'm CJ," Nikita quickly supplied as Ryan, picked up a remote, switched the angle of the cameras so the bar area popped on screen. She turned to the monitor giving him an opportunity to skim his gaze down her back, over those long legs. "It was really unavoidable," she added. Nikita glanced back over her shoulder. Ryan had changed into a suit-black and to her expert eye, of Italian cut.

"Next time, be punctual," he drawled and moved closer to Nikita. His hands came to her hips as he spoke, rode up to just under her breasts. Nikita's mouth went dry and the ache in her belly was a wide stretch of longing. Ryan skimmed his gaze down to her mouth and released her. "I'll take you down," he said and pushed the button for the elevator.

Whatever that spurt of lust inside her had come from, it would just have to go away again. Cool off, she ordered herself, but her heart was bumping madly against her rib cage. Cool off and focus on the job. With that, she steeped into the elevator with Ryan.


	4. Chapter 4

Michael took the stairs two at a time, anxious to clear up the paperwork on his last case, ready to be free for his next assignment. The reception area was like a sterile hospital ward with its circle of glass-windowed cubicles surrounding it. Marcus Caprezio, the newly appointed technician in place of Birkoff, sat in the middle, monitoring the needs of the staff. _Birkoff_, he thought with a frown. Michael soothed the frown away as he nodded to Caprezio as he moved around the circle toward his own little cubicle.

Michael withdrew the file from his right-hand lower drawer and as he lifted his head his eyes met the piercing gaze of Madeline who was at the overhead. He swirled around and hit the Enter key on his computer. The screen lit up with page one of the file on his last case. He prepared to enter the notes from his file folder, his focus totally directed at the work in front of him. 10 minutes passed, then fifteen. He slumped back in his chair in disgust. He couldn't pull it together. At the rate he was going, the report would be thirty pages long and such a mishmash that even he wouldn't recognise the case he'd completed. Either that or it would be so brief he'd leave out half the vital details. He searched his desk drawer for the pack of cigarettes he knew he'd shoved in there. His hand met cellophane and closed around the empty lack. Damn. When had he smoked the last one? Probably the last time he'd tried to write one of these reports. One of the new folders on the screen blinked and with a click on the mouse, Michael's eye connected with Nikita's face.

It was great when he got teamed with someone on a case so he could con the partner into filing reports. Or at least do a share of it. The first time he saw Nikita was the day the learned that the Section had assigned her to him. He had stared unashamedly at the woman before him, his brain barely believing what his eyes were registering, his ears closed to her cries of outrage. This was no asexual career fanatic, no male wannabe; this was a living cheesecake, every man's fantasy. A wealth of blonde colored hair fell in a ponytail from the top of her head swinging with her every movement. She was wearing tattered shorts that showed off the longest, shapeliest legs he'd ever seen, legs that ended seductively in bare feet, and a T-shirt that clung to a full bosom without the confinement of a bra. Sanity threatened. But it was hard to react any other way with such a vision before him in the flesh. He forgot why he was there, what he was about, momentarily forgot his own name. Nikita was the kind of woman who brought out the worst in a man.

Outraged at his apparent lack of self-control, Michael tapped a pencil against his cheek. Just as he was about to return his attention to his work, his Intercom buzzed. Michael punched it and Madeline's chilled voice rang out, "Michael, check on Nikita, and then report." As he slowly reopened the blinds, Michael peered through the glass and sure enough he found Madeline still rooted at her spot, staring down at him. _How does she do it?_ Michael thinks to himself. He fought for control over his nerves and though he tried to avoid contact with the solemn eyes staring at him through the glass window of his office, he had not been able to avoid their impact as they followed his every move. In anger, he slammed close the blinds and blew out a sigh of exasperation. Masking his anger at the invasion of privacy, Michael grabbed his keys and stalked out of his haven.

* * * * * * *

"Hey, boss," a man who was working the bar called out. Nikita's eyes narrowed as she studied the man with an easy smile. Brown hair, brown eyes, trim beard. Five-ten, maybe one-fifty. His dark suit was well cut, his gray tie neatly knotted. 

"Kirby Sloan," he offered and Nikita did likewise. "Looks like we're turning most tables over twice tonight. Big dinner crowd for midweek," Sloan returned his attention to Blackwood. 

"Good thing I brought us some help. She needs training," Blackwood said as he nodded towards Nikita.

"Ah, another victim," Sloan replied with a grin.

"You show her the ropes. She'll bus tables until you figure she can wait them."

"We'll whip her into shape. Come with me, I'll get you set up. Got any experience in food services?" Sloan asked as he plowed through the crowd.

"Well, I eat," Nikita said demurely.

Sloan let out a bright cackle of a laugh. "Welcome to my world. Stella, this is CJ, fresh meat. Stella works the bar area," he explained. "But she'll pinch hit in the club if we need her." The smile when Stella turned was friendly enough, but there was a measuring gleam in her eye. One female sizing up another, and the competition. There was a wild burst of laughter from outside the door.

"I better get out there." Stella tied a short, many-pocketed black apron at her waist and walked off. Nikita stared after the curvy brunette. Stella had her waist-length hair pulled back with combs from a lovely, heart-shaped face. Nikita gauged her as a mid-twenties, and a fashion plate. She'd gone for a skirt with small silver buttons. Silver winked at her wrists, ears and throat as she freshened her lipstick in a mirror.

"You want to freshen up or anything?"

"No, I'm fine. A little nervous, I guess."

"Don't worry. In a few hours your feet are going to ache so bad you won't think about nerves."

* * * * * * * 

Sloan was right. About the feet anyway. By two, Nikita felt she'd hiked twenty miles and lifted approximately three tons of trays loaded with dirty dishes. She could have marched the trail from table to kitchen in her sleep. It didn't help when on the way by the dance floor, a man reached out and gave her butt a hopeful pat. She stopped dead in her tracks, turned slowly and gave him one, long icy look. The man stepped back, lifted his hands in apology and quickly melted into the dancers. 

The live band was considerably louder than the recorded music that had played until just after twelve. The crowd shouted above it, crammed the dance floor and jammed together at the tables. Last call was enough to make Nikita weep with gratitude. She shoved her apron into her locker, pulled out her bag and jacket. She was just putting the jacket on when Stella breezed in. "Heading out? You look beat. Me, I'm just hitting stride this time of night."

"My stride hit me about an hour ago." Nikita paused at the door and asked Stella, "How did you get into tending bars?"

Stella hesitated, then said, "I guess I hang out at bars a lot, and when there came a time I was looking for what you could call gainful employment, Blackwood asked me if i wanted a job. It's good work." Though Stella had already calculated that Nikita's shoes probably equaled half a month's rent on her own apartment, she added, "Well, if you want to climb the ladder, Blackwood's the one to give you a boost. You'd have to figure that." With that, she walked out.

_Stella_, Nikita decided, _was proprietary when it came to Blackwood. They were probably lovers, _she thought as she stepped out of the lounge. Shutting the door behind her, she bumped solidly into Blackwood.

"Where'd you park?" he asked her.

"I didn't. I walked." 

"I'll drive you home."

"I can walk. It's not far."

"It's two in the morning. A block is too far."

Before she can argue, he caught her chin in his hand. The gesture, the firm grip of his fingers, shocked her to silence. "You're my female employee. I'll drive you home."

She started to shove his hand away, but he beat her to it and shifted his grip to her arm. 

"Night, boss." Sloan called out, grinning at them as they passed. "Get that girl off her feet."

"That's my plan. Later."

"What was that?" Nikita demanded as they stopped beside a sleek black Jaguar. 

Blackwood unlocked the passenger door, opened it. "You're a beautiful blonde with legs up to your ears. I hire you, out of the blue, when you have no job experience. The first assumption from people who know me is I'm attracted to you. The second would be you're attracted to me. Add all together and you end up with romance. Or at least sex."

Going with impulse he shifted, boxed her in between his body and the car door. There was a light breeze, just enough to stir her scent. He used both his hands to hold her arms over her head as his mouth came down on hers. He felt her body jerk against his. He used his teeth on her, scraping them along the long line of her lower lip. Freeing the warmth, the softness of it to him, then absorbing it. 

When his hands took her, fingers sliding down, gripping her hips, Nikita knew that she was every bit as ready as him to feed those hungers, to take what he craved without a second thought. But sanity returned when his hand nearly bumped over her weapon. Nikita jerked back as if he'd drawn it and shot her.

What was she doing? What in God's name was she doing? He said nothing, only stared at her with eyes that had gone blurry at the edges. Her body quaked. "That was a mistake," she managed to say.

He continued to stare at her as if in disbelief, then barked, "Get in."

She got into the car. Blackwood ignored her, drove through the light and pulled smoothly to the curb in front of her building. "How did..."

"I make it a point to know," he interrupted. 

The moment she got out of the car, Blackwood was gone. She pulled open the door. Swore.

"What are you doing here?"

Michael help up a bottle of California Chardonnay and said, "Just in the neighborhood. Who's the new boyfriend?"

"Well, you did ask me to report to Blackwood whenever and wherever." She stepped close, grabbed a glass and calmly sipped.

Michael's mouth thinned, his eyebrows lowered, the way she knew they did when he was backed into a corner. He couldn't believed that he was consumed by jealousy. "Nikita." He said her name, and the old-fashioned sweetness of it clicked. She saw him step back, saw the deliberate distance he built between them by the change in his eyes. Michael dipped his hands into his pockets because they weren't altogether steady and walked further away. He needed a minute to calm himself because the closer he was to her, he couldn't breathe without breathing her, and every breath of air was like the pump of a drug.

"Fine." Pride iced his voice. "Just remember to report in the morning," he said as he yanked open the door and stalked out.

"Bastard," Nikita muttered and sacrificed dignity for satisfaction by slamming the door.

* * * * * * * 

The man hung back in the shadow of the shallow woods across the street from the building. He could see a man walking out of Nikita's door. From where he stood he could see the glow of the man's cigarette in the dark as he got into his car that was parked in front. Anger ignited in him and he practically growled through clenched teeth, bunching his hat in an angry fist. He stared at the bristling man. His eyes glinting dangerously and his considerable size and stance were plainly threatening. But there wasn't a thing he can do without disclosing himself, at the moment.

Keeping his stride slow but even, he walked with purpose toward his target. If the man looked into his rearview mirror at that time, he'd surely spot him, even in the dark. He kept going, silently gripping hard on the dumbbell should the man suddenly get out of his car to question his presence on the street.

Scarcely breathing, he reached the house of the neighbor without incident. With careful stealth he made his way along the side of the house to the back, along the back, crossing a section of lawn, a patio, another section of lawn and then stepped onto Nikita's property.

Done! Easy as a pie. There was a gazebo in the middle of the backyard and he crept toward it, eased the screen door open and slipped inside. He sat for a while, surveying the house, feeling the satisfaction of trespassing without being caught. It was the sort of one-upmanship he most enjoyed, even though no one was around to appreciate his derring-do. He sat like that for half an hour and then got up to leave. He had nothing with him, had only the intention to stake out the place. But as he was about to make his way back the way he'd come, he had the urge to leave some proof of his prowess, something to let Nikita know that he'd been there. 

He scanned the room and his eyes gazed upon her clothesline. He snatched a piece of lingerie and breathed in deeply. Satisfied, he left. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note**: 

_Thank you all for being ever so patient and for all your support. I really do apologize for taking ages in coming up with the continuation of this story. This is my first story and as can be observed in this brief chapter, I'm actually having a writer's block. Hehe, this chapter seems rather lame to me and I would really appreciate it if you guys can review and maybe suggest an ending to this depressing bit I call a story. ;P. Thanks!!_

_Lotsa luv,_

_**A****ngiebaby**_

_**_________________________________________________________________________________________**_

Nikita left the living room without a backward glance, uneasily aware that it only "seemed" like she'd had the last word. It wasn't until she'd reached the top of the stairs when she felt a cold chill run up her back and which settled at the base of her neck. She put her hand up and rubbed the spot but it didn't go away. She froze midthought when she heard sounds from below. 

At first thought, Nikita reasoned that it was probably Michael, returning to give her a long tirade but her years of experience working in the Section took precedence. Her instincts warned her that something wasn't right. She crept down, pondering the thought of an intruder on her property. She'd agreed only to the minimal security setup of alarms at the front and back doors and the first-floor windows with a motion detector pointed from the front door to the end of the long hall. Half the time she didn't even bother to activate the system because she thought that it was an insult to her survival skills. Up till now she'd been perfectly safe.

Nikita didn't realise until she'd arrived at her study door that she'd been turning on lamps along the way, creating a trail of light behind her, as if that could deter the intruder. She stopped in the doorway of the study and gazed across the dark room to the window that overlooked the backyard. Turning on a light would make her visible to anyone standing outside. She pulled her hand from the switch and crossed the room in the dark. At the window she peered out. 

A half moon illuminating the yard, bringing some things into focus, casting others in shadow. Did some of the shadows have the outline of human form? She could see the gazebo from this vantage point but could not see into its screened interior. Could someone be lurking inside, peering back at her across the shadows? Her eyes gazed upon her clothesline and she noticed her missing lingerie.

Suddenly she thought she could feel eyes staring at her. She involuntary stepped back until she felt the wall pressing against her back. She took a deep breath to calm her racing heart and switched her mind to auto-mode. Nikita frowned when she caught the unpleasant edge of a new odor hanging in the air. Cigarette smoke. She sniffed the acrid scent more sharply and braved herself to cross the room and to follow its stench. Nikita scanned the grounds thoroughly. Her eyes connected with a matchbox cover that was stuck at the side of her screen door. She stared at the cover. The Hilton. 

She had to think a minute. She hadn't been to any of the Hilton hotels since her last assignment. She picked it up carefully, only to discover that it was in mint condition. Replacing the box in a sterile bag nearby, Nikita did a surveillance on the grounds of her house even thought she knew that the intruder wouldn't be lingering. It took some doing, but Nikita finally manage to climb into bed. There, she lay wake for a long time, her ears straining to catch the slightest noise from below. 

As Nikita climbed her stairs, she didn't notice the man creeping along the next aisle of cars.

* * * * * * *

"Give me a rundown on Storm's," Madeline ordered.

"The place does a hell of a business," Nikita began. "Pulls a big crowd, and the crowd varies, though it's heavy on the upwardly mobile. Couples, singles on the prowl, groups. Blackwood's got good security."

Absently Nikita rubbed her eyes, then remembered herself and lowered them. "He's got cameras, and I'm working on getting the security tapes."

"People mill," Michael added. "Especially the younger customers. It's a regular meeting ground for them, and they tend to table hop. Lots of sex vibes. It's a sexy place. People get careless when the blood's hot. There's a ripple when Blackwood comes through," he said as he gave Nikita a hard look.

Nikita didn't seem to have heard him and kept silent after submitting her report much to Michael's annoyance and this piqued Madeline's curiosity. Half an hour later, she was finishing up her morning meeting in the overhead and her fourth cup of coffee. She walked over to Walter, who was bent over a piece of machinery. 

"Hey sugar," Walter greeted her warmly.

"Hi Walter. Did you manage to identify any fingerprints on the box?"

Walter looked around and then produced the box, he shook his head. "I already dusted it. Nothing."

Nikita tried not to look disappointed but failed.

"Is this for the assignment--"

"Thanks Walter," Nikita interrupted and walked quickly away. 

With thoughts of the intruder on her mind, Nikita walked blindly towards Storm. A man passing threw her an interested glance, but she was too busy to notice. The blare of a car's horn penetrated her thoughts as she was about to cross the street at red light. A warm rush of embarrassment heated her cheeks when she caught a look of admonishment from an elderly lady waiting to cross beside her. She grinned sheepishly and obediently stared up at the walk sign until it lit up. She joined the throng of late lunchers and construction workers. 

Halfway across the street a sense of uneasiness penetrated and a chill stirred at the back of her neck again. She halted midstride to look over her shoulder, almost bumping into a woman carrying a baby on her shoulder, and met the eyes of the same elderly woman. The woman shook her head and made a moue of disgust, obviously labeling Nikita as some kind of flake.

But the woman's implied scolding didn't deter her from the sensation that she was being followed. She kept glancing behind her as her pace quickened, never seeing anyone she recognised, never losing the feeling of threat. By the time she reached the entry to Storm she was nearly running.

"Yo, CJ, you okay?" Sloan called to her.

"What?" Nikita turned to the man, but her glance strayed to the entrance where a rush of people was coming into the club. She saw no one suspicious and turned back to Sloan. "Sorry, Sloan, what did you say?"

"You looked like someone was after you," Sloan said, chuckling at he absurdity. "You okay?"

"Sure, I'm fine, Sloan. Just in a hurry." She started towards the lockers and remembered her manners. "Thanks for asking, Sloan," she called with a wave in the man's direction.

He smiled, nodded, and gave her a thumbs-up. He was still smiling in her direction as the door to the locker room closed, shutting off Nikita's view of him and the people moving in all directions behind him. The feeling of unease seemed to fall away and Nikita slumped back against the wall and let out a sigh of relief. Nikita visibly jumped as Stella entered the room and grinned knowingly at her.

"One of those days?"

Nikita agreed with a weak smile. "Yeah," she said, straightened. "One of those days."

As she donned on her apron Nikita was berating herself for "losing it" and letting her imagination run wild. Not like her at all. She could imagine sharing it with Michael and how he would in return scoff at her ridiculous character. But she had no intention of telling anyone. Nikita struggled everyday to keep her professional image intact, she wasn't now about to come across as the weak, frightened damsel in flight.

* * * * * * *

He stood looking over at his closet, thumbing through his considerable wardrobe deciding what to wear. Not the fancy outfits he liked when he went out to his favorite bars, or the police officer's uniform that had come in so handy the other night. Something more subdued. Maybe a khaki shirt and pants for his new persona. 

Humming to himself, he slipped on the shirt and admired his image in the mirror. He was a good-looking guy. Tall and muscular, and he could get the better of any woman, but he only wanted Nikita. Desired Nikita. Needed Nikita. While staring at his reflection in the mirror, his mind wandered to a character from Hemmingway's _Farewell to Arms_, Lieutenant Frederick Henry. An American volunteer in the World War I Italian army. Henry gets shot in the leg and meets an accommodating English nurse in the hospital. He knocks her up, and they run off together to the Swiss Alps or somewhere like that and have a glorious winter together, until she goes into labor. She dies having the baby; the kid dies too, and poor Frederick Henry is left with nothing. Perfect.

As he buttoned the khaki shirt, he felt a jolt of anticipation. _Finally_, he thinks to himself. Of course, it wasn't necessary to dress up tonight. His lady friend wouldn't care what he looked like until they actually met. His hands stilled as he wonders whether Nikita will recognise him. _Probably_. He thought about their brief time in the Hilton and his hands clenched in anger at the memory of how she betrayed him. She should pay for her deception but he thought about her hair that had been pale gold, and viewing it back then, rippling down her slender back sleek and shiny, he imagined filling his hands with the glittering strands; fantasized them draped over his bare chest, his thighs...

Hell. He decided the hard way that hunger had claws. It wasn't all that surprising since the last time he'd tangled the sheets with a willing woman had been in Tulsa, which was, he figured, doing some quick mathematics, nearly two months ago. When the woman could not satisfy his lust, he had the pleasure of wrapping his hands around her neck and squeezed the life out of her. He had grown and now no longer at the mercies of women. Now he was his own man, and he could pick any women he wanted. And he only wanted Nikita.

With a growl, he decided that he didn't want to spend the rest of the night using up all the cold water in the holding tanks, he was definitely going to have to see about getting laid.


	6. Chapter 6

Nikita knew that she shouldn't have accepted his invitation to dinner but Blackwood was not a man to be denied. Still, a girl's gotta eat and she is starving. Besides, she has to figure a way to sneak out some of his surveillance tapes.

"I gotta say," Nikita commented as she ate like a starving wolf, "you've got a really good kitchen. A lot of clubs, the food's mediocre at best. But yours, um..." She licked barbecue sauce from her thumb. "It's first class." Nikita thought fast and decided to break one of her long standing rules. "If you could spare a glass of wine, I noticed a nice sauvignon blanc in the panel."

Blackwood turned toward the panel, opened it, selected the bottle.

"Why don't you join me?"

"I'm still on duty, I don't drink during working hours," he replied with a grin.

"I noticed that. Don't drink, don't smoke, don't hit on the customers. During working hours," she added.

He turned back, the glass of pale gold wine in his hand. And watched her take off her jacket.

"I hope you don't mind," she said, then shrugged out of her jacket. "I find it awkward to seduce men when I'm fully clothed."

She laid it on his desk, then walked towards him. 

* * * * * * *

She might have been taken off her jackets, Blackwood thought, but she wasn't unarmed. A woman with eyes as potent as whiskey and a voice like smoke would never be without a weapon.

Worse, she knew it. That longbow mouth was curved up, just a little, like a cat's when the canary cage was open. He didn't much care for games, but he played on. "Your wine." He held out the glass, a deliberate move to keep an arm-span of distance between them. "And though I appreciate the thought, I don't have the time for a seduction at the moment."

Nikita wasn't put off because this was the only way she could get him to trust her. "Oh, it shouldn't take very long." She took the wine, and moved right in, grabbing a fistful of his shirt to hold him in place. "I really like the look of you, Blackwood. Hot mouth, cool eyes." She took a sip of wine, watching him over the rim. "I want to see more."

His senses went blade sharp. The muscles of his belly tied themselves into a dozen hard and tangled knots. He tried hard to suppress his smile as he said, "You get right to it, don't you?"

"You said you were in a hurry." She rose on her toes to nip her teeth into his bottom lip, and sliced a jagged line of need straight through him. "So I'm picking up the pace."

"I don't like sexually aggressive women," Blackwood teased on and pondered the irony of it all.

Her laugh was low, knowing and mocking. "Then this is going to be very unpleasant for you. That's a shame." She leaned in, skimmed her tongue up the side of his neck. "I want you to touch me. I want you to put your hands on me."

He kept them to his sides, but in his mind they were already ripping at her shirt, already taking. "Like I said, it's a nice offer, but--"

"I can feel your heart pounding." She shook her hair back, and the scent of it slithered into his system. "I can feel the way you want me, the same way I want you." She saw the change in his eyes, the faintest deepening of shade. Dead giveaway, she thought. She took a sip of wine and then moved forward, walking him backward. Nikita noticed that he had trouble swallowing and slipped something into her drink without his knowledge, and placed it back on his desk. 

"I guess I'm going to have to get rough." She grinned as he drained her glass so that the wine pumped in with the reckless power surging through him. Nikita tossed the glass aside and hooked a hand in the waistband of his trousers. 

Aroused and furious that he lacked self control, he said, "Cut it out."

"Make me." She threw her head back, then leaped, arms wrapping around his neck, legs vised around his waist. "Come on and make me. You've got plenty of moves."

Her mouth swooped down to tease his, and she tasted a wild, wonderful mix of desire and temper. "Take me down," she whispered, raking her hands through his hair. "Finish it. Finish me."

His blood was raging. The taste of her, hot and female with the fiat zip of wine, was on his tongue. "You asking for trouble."

"So..." She rubbed her lips over his, as if imprinting her flavor on him. "Give it to me."

Control snapped. He could hear it echo in his head like the violent crack of hammer against stone. He gripped her hair, wrapping it around his hand, yanking it back so that she let out a little gasp as her head flew back.

"The line's crossed." His eyes weren't cool now. They simmered, as if a bolt of lightning had struck a pool. "You'll give me everything I want. What you don't give, I'll take. That's the deal."

Her breath was already quickened and as she pondered when the powder will take effect, she answered him, "Done."

His gaze lowered to the long, vulnerable curve of her throat. Then he set his teeth on her. Her body jerked against his as the shock of that threat of pain. Her mind reeled to a familiar image...Michael. And suddenly that threat of pain turned miraculously into a lance of pleasure. Then she was falling, clinging to him as she tumbled into the shadows, into the dark. 

She lost her breath when she hit the bed, lost her grip when his body covered hers. Then, for a moment, he tore her shirt open, she lost her mind. Floundering for balance, she threw an arm up. Her knuckles thudded against the bedspread, then her fingers dug in. "Wait."

"No."

His mouth was on her breast, ravaging tender flesh with lips and teeth and tongue. She fought for air, fought to find the power that had been hers just moments before. Instead she found him spinning past control, past reason. His hands were on her, as she had demanded. And they were hard and fast, ruthlessly exploiting weakness, secrets she hadn't known she'd possessed. Then his mouth came back to hers, hot and greedy. He rolled with her over the wide pool of the bed, taking what and how he wanted. When he dragged her to her knees, she trembled. She could see his eyes, the predatory gleam of them, from the backwash of light from the office. She let out a ragged breath as she squeezed her eyes shut to blot out this terrifying nightmare.

Then, it was over. Everything stilled as Blackwood buried his face in the tumbled mass of her hair and fell to the bed. Offering a silent prayer above, Nikita let out a sigh of relief, quickly collected her clothes and left after gathering all the surveillance tapes required for the assignment. 


	7. Chapter 7

The watcher hiding under the branches of the maple trees fifty yards from Storm clenched his fist in anger. He wanted to cry out in agony and his eyes twitched when he saw her pad past the window in a ripped shirt, clinging to yet another man. She didn't have a clue that he was getting an eyeful. He could step out from under the trees and walk right up to the back door if he wanted, break the glass, go inside, and do anything he wanted. Because he knew she would never know, since she is too absorbed in her own world now to sense anything. 

_ Nikita. Why are you doing this to us. I could have given you everything. Now...I am going to get even._. Taking a last drag on his cigarette, he stubbed it out and ground it into the ark soil. And he wasn't going to make another mistake like the one a few nights ago. 

The back door opened, and she came outside, and he wondered if she'd come out for a little fresh air. Then she began to cautiously look from the left, then the right and walked quickly along the surface of the wooden deck. She was heading for a metal trash can but she wasn't carrying any trash. He squinted and noticed that she was clutching her jacket tightly to her chest. He waited and his eyes never left her. He was just about to consider moving closer when her mobile rang.

_Damn, talk about luck_. But it doesn't matter. He would get his revenge, and he wasn't about to wait that long. He wanted her to understand that she'd brought her punishment on herself by compromising with other men.

* * * * * * * 

Nikita flipped on her mobile, as she juggled to keep the video tapes hidden.

"Josephine..." Michael said and disconnected the line.

Sighing heavily, Nikita made her way to the Section.

* * * * * * *

"Are you sure he wouldn't notice?" asked Operation with a frown. "It wasn't on the assignment."

"He's knocked off cold. All I got to do is return and climb under the sheets. The man will never know."

Michael chose not to comment but noticed that Nikita looked rather strain. When the meeting was over, he motioned Nikita into his cubicle.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing. Just a little tired." 

Realising that she was not going to confide in him, he told her that he was taking her home. Not wanting to argue, Nikita just nodded. When she approached the car, Michael held out the half cup of takeout coffee he had left. "Thanks."

"You can have a whole one. There's a twenty-four-hour place a few blocks down."

"This is fine," she replied, taking the cup. Nikita shut her exhausted eyes. Eyes closed, she circles her head, cracking out the tension.

"You going to drink that coffee or just hold onto it?"

"What? Oh, no, here, I don't want anymore. It'll just keep me awake."

He doubted a tanker truck of coffee could keep her awake much longer. He voce was going thick, adding, he thought, to the in-the-gut sexiness of it. Fatigue had left her unguarded enough to tilt her face toward her as she tried to find a comfortable resting spot. Her eyes were shut, her lips soft and just parted.

He had a feeling he knew exactly how they'd taste. Warm and soft. Ripe with sleep.

At a stop sign, he put the car in neutral, engaged the emergency break, then leaned over her to press the mechanism that lowered her seat-back.

She jerked up, rapped her head smartly against his. Even as he swore she slapped a hand on his chest.

"Back off!"

"Relax, Nikita, I'm not jumping you. I like my women awake when we make love. I'm putting your seat back. If you're going to sleep. you might as well get as close to horizontal as we can manage."

"I'm alright." Mortified, but alright, she thought. "I wasn't sleeping."

He put a hand on her forehead, shoved her back. "Shut up, Nikita."

"I wasn't sleeping. I was thinking."

"Think tomorrow. You're brain-dead." He glanced over at her as he started to drive again. "How many hours have you been doing today?"

"That's math, I can't do math if I'm brain-dead." She gave up and yawned.

He drove through the light and pulled smoothly to the curb in front of her house. "Okay. Thanks." She reached down to retrieve her bag from the floor.

He was already out of the car, skirting around the hood. Maybe it was fatigue that had her reacting so slowly, as if she was moving through syrup instead of air. But he had the outside handle of the door seconds before she had the inside handle.

For five seconds they battled for control. Then with a halfhearted snarl, Nikita let him open the door for her. "What are you, from another century? Do I look incapable of operating the complex mechanism of a car door?"

"No. You look tired."

"Well, I am. So good night."

"I'll walk you to the door."

"Get a grip."

But he fell into step beside her, and damn him, reached the door one pace ahead of her. Saying nothing, merely watching her with those impossibly clear eyes. She snorted and said, "You're not coming in. Don't even dream of--" She broke off, shifting in front of him fast and pulling her weapon. "Keep back. Don't touch anything."

He saw it now. The fresh scrape and pry marks on the door. Nikita used two fingers on the knob, turned it, then booted the door open with her foot. She went in low, slapping the lights on, started her sweep even as Michael stepped in front of her.

"Get back. What are you crazy?"

"One of the things I learned in charm school was not to use a woman as a shield." Michael scanned the debris of the room. "Put your weapon away, he's long gone."

She knew it, felt it, but there were rules and procedures. "Well pardon the hell out of me while I play cop and make sure."

"Don't touch anything," Michael reminded her. Nikita rolled her eyes while stepping over a broken lamp and checked the rest of the house.

She was swearing in a low, steady voice as she headed for the phone. Michael took it from her and replaced the receiver. "I'll do it."

Nikita shook her head in fatigue and snapped on protective gloves and began to do inventory. Her stereo components, good ones, hadn't been stolen. But they had been smashed. Her laptop and the small TV that stood above the stereo had received the same treatment.

Every table lamp in the place-including the antique bookkeeper's light she'd bought for her desk-was broken. Her sofa had a long gash from end to end, and the guts of it spilled out in nasty puffs.

He'd poured the half gallon of paint she'd bought then had never gotten around to using, in the middle of her bed.

Over the bed, he'd slopped a message in the same paint. 

**Try To Sleep At Night**

"Nikita," Michael said from behind her. "You have to learn to trust me."

"Maybe." She nodded as she walked back out of the bedroom. She picked her way to the living room and inwardly promised that she wasn't going to let it shake her. She couldn't. For an undercover agent, she reminded herself, nerves were as costly as rage and just as dangerous. The break-in at her house was a direct, and personal, attack. Her only choice was to stand up to it, maintain her objectivity, and do the job she'd sworn to do.

When the unit arrived, Michael told Nikita to pack what she thought she needed. She was moving in with him until it was over. Neither of them talked about the giant step they were taking; they told themselves it was simply a logical and convenient arrangement.

Then they had slept, tangled together, for what was left of the night.


End file.
